


Crutch

by Westgate (Harkpad)



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Implied mention of child abuse, M/M, Prompt Fill, Trope fill, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 19:30:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2162394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harkpad/pseuds/Westgate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So perletwo at tumblr took my offer to write a trope-fic and prompted me the "Phil soothes Clint's doctor phobia" trope. Here's the result! Clint has a cold and if you're sick before a mission there are rules. He's not sure he can follow them, but Phil helps him out. A shoulder to lean on, a soothing hand at his back, a reward-offering of sex once Clint gets better. You know, helpful things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crutch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [perletwo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perletwo/gifts).



When Clint wakes up from a fitful sleep and can barely breathe through his nose, he figures he can ignore it like usual. He’s a normal adult who keeps DayQuil and Sudafed and NyQuil and Tylenol and Advil and, well, he has legal drugs and knows when to use them. He pops a DayQuil and shoves a little aluminum packet of extras in his pants’ pocket for later.

He even grabs a tea instead of caramel macchiato at the coffee shop and pours a third of the honey from the add-ins stand into his cup because the stuffy nose appears to be accompanied by a tickle of a sore throat, god dammit. He huddles a bit into his hooded sweatshirt and hurries out of the shop into the crisp October air so he won’t be late for Phil’s briefing. He was late yesterday, and twice in one week is pushing it, even for him.

He slides into his seat in the conference room and unzips his hoodie before realizing that while he has managed to get to the meeting on time, he’s also managed to forget his briefing packet for the mission in his locker. He allows himself a moment to drop his head to his arms on the table and close his eyes against the ripple of exhaustion that threatens, even though he just climbed out of bed an hour ago.

With a sigh that turns into a dry cough, he pushes back from the table and goes to the front of the room where Phil and Fury are discussing the upcoming briefing. His cough draws their attention.

Phil merely raises an eyebrow and Fury crosses his arms and levels a hard stare at Clint.

“I need to go get my files, sir,” he says to Phil. “I apologize.”

Even Phil seems taken aback at the lack of flourish or excuse. “Did you forget them?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Rough morning already.”

“Okay, we’ll start with the backup team then. Get back as quick as you can.”

Clint is part of the advance team, which would usually be up to bat first on the schedule, so he’s grateful for the adjustment. He slips out of the room and downstairs. He makes it back quickly, and he jogs the winding hallway from the elevator. When he collapses into his seat at the table and has to take a second to get his breath back, he knows this cold’s going to be a doozy.

“You’re sick,” Phil states after the three hour briefing from hell finally ends.

Clint looks up from where he still hasn’t managed the energy to climb out of his chair to leave, even though everyone else has cleared the room. Phil’s voice sounds fuzzy in his ears, and when he answers, his own sounds like it’s coming from a tunnel. “Yeah, but it’s just a cold.”

“You know the rules about heading into a mission sick.”

“It’s a two-day mission, boss. In and out. I’ll take a bunch of that special Benadryl R&D made just for us and run an IV of coffee on the way over. It’ll be fine.” At the frown on Phil’s face he added, “You need me.” It was true. Clint had actually run into this splinter group of AIM before, could do all three of the IDs needed to carry out the mission, and probably take all of them out at once if he had to. The teams are really just regulation backup at this point. If Phil pulls Clint, the mission could take a week and cost more personnel.

“You’ve been here three years, Clint. You know you need to get approval from Doctor Antle,” Phil said gently.

Clint sighs. “Don’t make me.” He looks up at Phil and tries his best puppy-dog eyes to plead.

Sure, he’d been shot, and tortured, and cut, and thrown off of a train, and dragged down a mountain behind a snowmobile, so he’d spent his fair share of time in medical. But he was never conscious going in. He always managed to convince them to do their yearly physicals when he was already in for something else, and his medicine cabinet at his place always took care of the small stuff, so the problem of walking deliberately through the doors had never been faced. He isn’t sure anyone has ever noticed, but if the look in Phil’s eyes is anything to go on, then Phil certainly has.

“Clint,” Phil says, sitting down next to him and putting his hand on his thigh. It’s not much at all, but it’s more physical than they’ve been at work since they agreed that dating would probably solve a lot of their off-duty problems with emotions and sex and, yeah. They’ve been dating for two months. Now Clint stares at Phil’s hand and then up to his cool, blue eyes. Clint’s lungs are already working overtime, but his breath stutters at the concern he sees etched on Phil’s face.

He looks away, unable to meet Phil’s gaze. When he swallows, the soreness of his throat decides to go from a tickle to a raw, searing pain and he can’t hide his surprised wince.

“You need to get checked. I know you don’t want to go, but you need to.”

Clint mutters “Fuck,” and rubs his hand through his hair.

“Clint,” Phil says, and his voice drops into negotiation tone, like he’s talking to a scared civilian or a flighty suspect. It’s a tone that gets shit done without hurting. “What’s going on?”

Clint figures that they’re dating and have confessed a level of emotional commitment to each other that this situation might fall into in terms of honoring, so he sighs and tries to explain. “Doctors were dangerous,” he says, looking up at Phil again. “They could report us to the cops when we were in the circus, or they could report to Child Protective Services when we were younger. They – “ he falters as he hears his father’s low, snarling voice in his head. “They get in your business where they don’t belong,” he says, trying to imitate his father and the countless others who had offered the same tune. “They get in the way and don’t do anything helpful. If they wanted to help they’d just fix you and let you go back to where you belong,” he adds in the same gruff tone, and ends up coughing into his shirt sleeve for a second before looking away.

Phil just runs his hand down Clint’s cheek and stays quiet.

Clint swallows thickly. “I know that’s not true. I know it doesn’t mean anything now. I _know_ that. But I’ve never voluntarily gone to a doctor and it just feels wrong, like I’m breaking some rule, like it’s going to bite me in the ass.” He stares at the floor.

“Okay. Come on,” Phil says, standing and pulling Clint to his feet. “I’ll go with you. I get it,” he says softly as Clint leans into his side. “I do. But you have to do this for your health and for the rules, and you know up here,” he said, tapping Clint’s temple, “That it’s going to work out. Dr. Antle will clear you if it really is just a cold, so let’s go get it done.”

That should be enough, having Phil at his side, but, as they get closer to medical, Clint’s feet decide to stop working and his breathing speeds up without any control. Clint clenches his teeth and looks down at the floor, and tries to keep moving. Phil grips his elbow and tugs him gently, lets him lean against him, guides him into medical.

Clint lets Phil do all the talking and barely registers when he hears Phil request the doctor’s private office instead of an open exam room. Dr. Antle appears, a tall, thin man with dark black hair that is pulled back in a ponytail to reveal a face with high cheekbones and warm brown eyes. His smile is inviting and gentle, and he takes in how Phil is holding Clint up and what is probably a slightly panicked glare on Clint’s face and nods, gesturing them back to his office without a word.

There’s a small brown leather couch against one wall, facing the doctor’s desk that’s piled with stacks of papers and files and empty coffee cups. The coffee table in front of the couch has a spider plant on it, but it’s also piled with papers and a mug that says “See Rock City” in bright orange. The lighting is soft and Clint swears he hears soft classical music coming from somewhere on the cluttered desk. Phil steers Clint to the couch and he sits down heavily.

He can’t relax, though, and sits stiffly. When Dr. Antle asks what they need from him, Clint just stares at Phil like he can’t find his voice anymore.

“He’s coming down with something but we need him on a two to three day mission if possible,” Phil says, as if talking for Clint is the most normal thing in the world.

Dr. Antle nods. “We’ve got some good stuff for field agents,” he says, and he moves to an oak cabinet in the corner of the room and rummages through it for a minute, his back to Clint and Phil. Phil scoots a little closer to Clint and rubs his back lightly. Clint tries not to arch into the touch, and lets the rhythm of Phil’s hand regulate his breaths, feels some of the tension drift out of his muscles.

The doctor turns back around and moves to the coffee table. He takes a quick, assessing look at Clint and reaches down to pull the coffee table back a bit. He comes around and sits down on it, ignoring the file he sits on and setting his bag and a clipboard next to him. He looks at Clint again. “I’m going to do this as fast as I can. There are a few criteria you have to meet in order to get the specials from R&D’s pharmaceutical division, so I’m going to have to test you for those and do some poking and prodding, okay?”

Clint feels like he’s a dumb, scared six year-old, but he’s grateful for the doctor’s careful movements and tone. He nods and looks over at Phil. Their eyes meet and Phil winks reassuringly, and his hand never stops moving on Clint’s back.

The exam takes about a half an hour, and Clint leaves with a bag of prescription pills after getting a shot in the arm from Dr. Antle, apparently a long-acting dose of antihistamine. Phil keeps his hand at the small of Clint’s back as they leave medical, and they’re quiet as they head toward the elevator.

“We’ve got two hours before final mission check,” Phil says.

Clint sighs and leans his head back on the elevator wall. “I hope that shit he gave me is good,” he says, letting the weariness in his bones come through in his voice.

“It is, from what I hear,” Phil says. “Plus you were great in the office, so there’s something we could do before we have to be back, if you want.”

“Are you offering me a prize for going to the doctor, Phil?”

Phil shrugs and grins. “I hear the mint-chocolate chip milkshakes at the parlor at the end of the block are pretty fantastic. Might make your throat feel better until the drugs kick in.”

“Awww, sir. I thought you were going to give me a lollipop,” Clint replies, even though the milkshake idea sounds _golden_.

Phil nudges Clint in the ribs and leans in close. “After the mission. After you’re better. I’ll get you a cherry lollipop and you can show me how you eat them,” he says in a sultry undertone that makes Clint’s skin tingle even through the feeling of garbage his body is throwing at him.

He sneaks a quick kiss to Phil’s hand and rakes his eyes down Phil’s body, drinking in the sight of the one person who could make him feel so many things in such a short time. “Hell, yeah, I can show you how to eat a lollipop,” he replies, trying to sound sexy.

It would have worked, too, if he hadn’t succumbed to a coughing fit at the last syllable and ended up doubled over as the doors opened. “A milkshake,” he manages to cough out. “Sounds fantastic.”


End file.
